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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476434">Knew It Would Be Like This</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkswan/pseuds/thedarkswan'>thedarkswan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Co-workers, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Up and Coming In an Elevator, Valentine's Day, Workplace Relationship, if you know what i mean, seriously this is so self indulgent, the fluffiest of fluffs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 22:13:59</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,767</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29476434</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkswan/pseuds/thedarkswan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“What are you doing?”</p><p>Rowan reaches toward her then, not to her neck to strangle her as she assumes, but to her waist. His hands span her ribs and lift, propping her against the handrail. </p><p>His thumbs stroke her lowest ribs. “Testing a theory.”</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien &amp; Rowan Whitethorn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>60</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Knew It Would Be Like This</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Yes, this is a day late, but please enjoy this fluffy Valentine's Day trash. I love these two with my whole heart.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The clock in front of Aelin reads 5:58 PM, the 14th of February. Only professional self-restraint prevents her from hurling it against a wall. Why was the date necessary on a clock? Did she really need a reminder of how desperately lonely her life had become over the past year?</p><p> </p><p>Fingers flying over keys, from the other side of the cubicle wall next her, would be the only romantic soundtrack to her Valentine’s Day. Her hands fist with the thought of her coworker, the reason she was stuck in this drab office on the most romantic day of the year, instead of sitting on her couch with a too-expensive bottle of wine and her favorite take out. Rowan-fucking-Whitehorn. The bastard never took a break. If their boss Maeve was in the office, Rowan was in the office, which meant Aelin <em> had </em> to be in the office, or she would look like a slacker. </p><p> </p><p>The typing next door pauses and Aelin holds her breath, begging any god that would listen for the telltale rustle of his coat that meant he was packing up for the night. Tragically, he clears his throat instead. </p><p> </p><p>“Galathynius? Are you still here?”</p><p> </p><p>She sighs dramatically in response. </p><p> </p><p>Rowan appears over the wall that separates their cubicles, his stupidly handsome face smoothed into a congenial mask, as if they didn’t half of their professional lives hating each other. </p><p> </p><p>“Do you know what today is?”</p><p> </p><p>Again, she decides silence was the best response, so she gives her best slow blink. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s Valentine’s Day.”</p><p> </p><p>“What is your point, Whitehorn?”</p><p> </p><p>“I was just wondering what poor sucker you’ve roped into taking you to some heinously overpriced dinner.” He glances down at the blasted clock on her desk. “Pretty late reservations. Someone didn’t plan ahead.” </p><p> </p><p>Aelin bares her teeth at him. “I don’t have a date, asshole.”</p><p> </p><p>If she didn’t know better, Aelin would have said she saw a flash of surprise cross his face. She reverts to her nervous habit and reaches for her lipstick, giving her an excuse to draw her eyes away from the mesmerizing green ones staring at her to meet her own gaze in the small mirror on her cubicle wall. Pulling the cap off, she presses the pigment to the center of her lower lip. </p><p> </p><p>Above her, Rowan’s throat makes a clicking sound, drawing her eyes back up. But there is nothing apparent to see, just Rowan with his standard clenched jaw and what she lovingly referred to as his murder eyes. </p><p> </p><p>“Must you do that in the workplace?”</p><p> </p><p>Aelin slows her movements. If she can’t best him in extreme professionalism, maybe she could annoy him to death. She takes extra care with her lower lip, accentuating her pout, not at all hoping that the man above her might be attracted to her enough to ignore workplace policy for one singular second. </p><p> </p><p>When she is finished, she reaches for a post-it note and brings it to her lips, making a smacking kiss against it. And, before her brain can listen to the warning sign of her racing heart, she stands and sticks the post-it directly to Rowan’s shirt. </p><p> </p><p>“Happy V-day, Whitehorn.” </p><p> </p><p>He sputters a bit, his hands fumbling for the offending piece of paper, ripping it from his shirt, his eyes darting between it and her. Apparently unable to come up with a retort, he disappears to the other side of the cubicle wall again. </p><p> </p><p>Sensing a sudden weakness in the predator, Aelin presses on, “I’m leaving in fifteen if you’d like me to walk you down to the parking garage. I know you get scared at night.”</p><p> </p><p>There is a grunt from the other side of the wall, more throat clearing. “That will be fine.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>They walk side by side through the maze of cubicles, steps matched and faces grim like they are marching to their execution. Somehow, Rowan ended up holding Aelin’s coat. It’s slung across his forearm like a hostage. </p><p> </p><p>When they reach the elevators, he beat her to the button, everything a constant competition between them. The only sound between them was the gentle chime of the elevator announcing its ascent to their floor. </p><p> </p><p>On a normal day, Aelin would have assumed Rowan’s thoughts were on her personal demise or an erroneously coded cell in a spreadsheet. But something is off. She senses his glances as they wait. Glances that would have been subtle had they not spent nearly every minute of their 9 to 5s (sometimes 5 to 9s) together. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re being weird.”</p><p> </p><p>The elevator chimes louder in agreement, the doors in front of them sliding open in invitation. </p><p> </p><p>“I haven’t said a word.” He gestures with his arm, ever the gentleman. He follows her into the elevator. </p><p> </p><p>In the grand scheme of elevators, it is rather spacious. But Rowan seems to fill all of the space as the doors close. They take up opposite positions, two duelers facing off at dusk. His eyes track all over her, cataloging details for what she assumes are nefarious purposes. </p><p> </p><p>“Planning my assassination?” </p><p> </p><p>This gets his attention. She watches in mild horror as he drops her coat and his messenger bag to the floor. He crosses the space between them in three strides, pausing an arm’s length from her. Aelin presses herself further into the wall, hoping her atoms might align just right and she will disappear through to the other side. </p><p> </p><p>Beneath her feet, the elevator lurches to a halt. She was so busy staring at his murder eyes that she hadn’t noticed his hands reach for the panel of buttons. His index finger is pressed to the emergency stop button. </p><p> </p><p>“What are you <em> doing </em>?”</p><p> </p><p>Rowan reaches toward her then, not to her neck to strangle her as she assumes, but to her waist. His hands span her ribs and lift, propping her against the handrail. </p><p> </p><p>His thumbs stroke her lowest ribs. “Testing a theory.”</p><p> </p><p>And then he kisses her. </p><p> </p><p>Rowan Whitehorn, her sworn enemy, presses his mouth against hers. Her mouth opens a bit, all instinct, and they fuse together further. </p><p> </p><p>Neither has closed their eyes. Both are staring like they’re waiting to wake from this strange hallucination. Because that can be the only possible explanation for their current position. </p><p> </p><p>He pulls back a bit, giving her a moment to consider what has just happened. Aelin finds herself reaching forward and he flinches like he too assumes she has been waiting for an opening to get her hands around his neck. Instead, they both watch in detached fascination as her hand wraps around his tie, pulling him back to her. </p><p> </p><p>Then, they are <em> really </em> kissing. She uses his tie like a lasso, wrangling a wild animal into order. His hands are everywhere, glancing over her ribs, brushing along her thighs, tipping her jaw to give him better access to her mouth. His mouth is surprisingly gentle, considering how frequently he uses it to get under her skin. Aelin runs her tongue across his bottom lip in experimentation and is rewarded when Rowan shudders beneath her hands. </p><p> </p><p>She feels the scrape of his teeth on her bottom lip and actually moans. Desperate to get closer, her base instincts take over in the absence of conscious thought. Her hands start to scrabble at him, tugging at fabric and muscle and hair and whatever else will keep her from drifting off into an oblivion of need. </p><p> </p><p>He interprets her need correctly, his hands reaching for the hemline of her skirt and rucking it up around her hips. Giving her no time to consider the fact that Rowan Whitehorn can probably see her underwear, he steps in closer, pressed to her from chest to hip. Her brain zeroes in on the feel of his legs between her thighs, the feel of his apparent arousal grinding against her. She sinks her teeth into his neck, desperate to leave something behind to prove that this is real.</p><p> </p><p>Against her skin, he is muttering something. It takes a moment for her to process the words. </p><p> </p><p>“... I knew it… knew it would be like this… knew it…”</p><p> </p><p>Aelin makes to pull away but he holds fast. “No, no, stay,” he mumbles, and a pass of his hand over her breast erases all thought from her brain. </p><p> </p><p>Her fingers yank at his shirt, giving her access to the bare skin of his abdomen. When she scrapes her nails through the trail of course hair she finds there, he has to wrench his face away from hers to growl into her neck. He returns the favor by sucking on the supremely sensitive skin at the hinge of her jaw. Her hips buck into his in response. </p><p> </p><p>“What are we <em> doing </em>?” she manages to gasp. </p><p> </p><p>His tongue tastes the valley behind her collarbone before he responds. “I don’t know about you, but I’m trying very hard to seduce you.”</p><p> </p><p>“Why am I <em> letting </em> you?”</p><p> </p><p>He ignores the rhetorical question and begins kissing a searing path from her throat towards her cleavage. Distantly, Aelin wonders about the science behind spontaneous human combustion because it feels like there is an inferno inside of her. </p><p> </p><p>As his tongue paints a damp trail across the top of her left breast, there is suddenly a horrid, shrill ringing from beside them. </p><p> </p><p>It’s the emergency telephone.</p><p> </p><p>“Fuck,” Rowan mutters, lowering Aelin to the floor so he can reach for it. With the momentary lapse from his overpowering presence, her head clears a bit and the reality of her current situation slowly sinks in. </p><p> </p><p>She just kissed Rowan Whitehorn. She just <em> really </em> kissed Rowan Whitehorn. Maybe lightly dry-humped Rowan Whitehorn. At work. In an elevator. On <em> Valentine’s Day </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Rowan is growling something into the receiver. “Yeah, man, I don’t know what to tell you it just stopped working... Sure, ok... Thanks.” As he returns the receiver to its designated spot, the elevator begins its descent again. </p><p> </p><p>Some sense works its way back into her brain and she pushes away from Rowan, adjusting all her clothes to where they should be in the workplace. He simply stares at her, his expression apprehensive.</p><p> </p><p>“You…” she starts, but finds no other words to pair with that singular syllable. </p><p> </p><p>Rowan somehow finds comfort in her speechlessness, because his whole body relaxes and he returns to where he dropped their things. Aelin doesn’t miss the fact that he has to adjust the front of his pants as he goes. </p><p> </p><p>“I…” she tries again, but still nothing. The code her brain has been running on for the last year has been entirely rewritten in the space of the last ten minutes and she is having an impossible time computing the input from her surroundings. </p><p> </p><p>Rowan has the audacity to actually smile, a smile she’s never before, one without an ounce of sarcasm in it. Approaching her, but stopping halfway between them, he offers her coat up and for once when she turns her back to him, she’s not wondering if he is fantasizing about her untimely end. Aelin slips her arms into the sleeves and shrugs the garment on, his hands ghosting over her shoulders. When she turns back to him, he is adjusting his messenger bag back over his chest. His eyes are on her, the same gaze he leveled on her not ten minutes ago. She realizes these aren’t his murder eyes. These are his horny eyes. Something in her gut twists deliciously. </p><p> </p><p>When the doors open into the parking garage, he gestures again for her to lead the way. They walk in silence again, but now it’s loaded for an entirely different reason. When they reach her car, Rowan stops, turning to face her. In the sharp fluorescent lighting, Aelin can see every spot on his neck where her mouth had been. </p><p> </p><p>“Tell me what you’re thinking.”</p><p> </p><p>His voice is gravelly, and he phrases his words as a command, not a question.  Absently, Aelin wonders if he is as commanding in the bedroom as he is in the office. A shiver works its way down her spine. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m thinking that I’ll have to see you on Monday. And that you sure picked an interesting day to maul me in the elevator.”</p><p> </p><p>His eyes flash. “You seemed more than happy to be mauled.” He takes a step closer and she doesn’t retreat. Her fight or flight response has been stuck in fight mode since Rowan sat down in the cubicle next to hers. </p><p> </p><p>“In fact,” he continues, taking another step, “I would say you were rather enthusiastic about returning the mauling.” One of his hands rubs at a particularly red spot on his neck for emphasis. </p><p> </p><p>“We work together, Rowan. And not <em> well </em>, if I may add.” </p><p> </p><p>“HR doesn’t have a policy against workplace relationships.”</p><p> </p><p>In her chest, her heart stumbles a bit. “Why do you already know that?”</p><p> </p><p>He reaches for her and she doesn’t step away. She can’t. She wants to turn heel and run but the connection between her brain and legs seems to be severed. </p><p> </p><p>Catching a stray lock of her hair, he tucks it behind her ear. “I’ve been thinking about what just happened in the elevator for months. That’s why.”</p><p> </p><p>The world seems to tip on its axis at the admission. “... months?” Her voice is not recognizable as her own, breathy and high. </p><p> </p><p>In her mind's eye is a kaleidoscope of interactions between them since he started, painted in a new light. When she would catch him staring at her as she adjusted her hair during a meeting, her memory corrects the look in his eyes from murder to <em> hunger </em>. When he would make snide remarks about her love life, she suddenly saw jealousy. He was still an asshole, but… she had returned the favor in kind. </p><p> </p><p>His hand slips to the nape of her neck, threading his fingers into her hair. “Probably longer, but I need to maintain some semblance of self-preservation.” </p><p> </p><p>The silence stretches between them, both trying to read the other’s thoughts through eye contact alone. Out of nowhere, hysterical laughter bubbles up out of Aelin. Big, huffing belly laughs, big enough that Rowan takes a shocked step back, the corner of his mouth pulled up in an almost smile. </p><p> </p><p>“You <em> like </em> me!” she gasps through her cackles, bending over at the waist to brace her hands on her knees. “You kissed me on <em> Valentine’s Day </em> . You <em> really </em> like me!” </p><p> </p><p>Rowan rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, the picture of annoyance, if it weren’t for the tiny dimple in his cheek. “This is not the reaction a man hopes for when he throws himself at a woman in an elevator.” </p><p> </p><p>Getting herself under control, Aelin straightens and takes a step away, towards her car door. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, Whitehorn.”</p><p> </p><p>“Do tell,” he says, that stupid smirk growing. He shadows her steps, not letting her run, but not stopping her retreat. </p><p> </p><p>She comes to a stop when she can rest her hand on the handle of the car door, giving her something to ground herself. “We’re both going to get in our cars and go to our respective homes and do whatever single people do on Valentine’s Day. You’re going to do whatever narcissistic psychopaths do over the weekend, and I’m going to do whatever insanely hot and intelligent women do over the weekend.” His smile breaks into a full grin, brilliant in its radiance. He reaches a hand out and she lets him pull her back into his orbit, one arm circling her waist in a gentle hold, the other hand still holding hers like they’re about to slow dance. </p><p> </p><p>“Sounds reasonable,” he offers softly. </p><p> </p><p>“I really thought you would object to those descriptors.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m feeling very indulgent. Something about kissing insanely hot and intelligent women calms me down.”</p><p> </p><p>It’s her turn to roll her eyes before she continues. “And then, on Monday, you’re going to ask me out like a normal person, instead of cornering me in an elevator. We’ll go on a date and then-”</p><p> </p><p>“Then I can make out with you in elevators?” he finishes. </p><p> </p><p>“I would enjoy a repeat performance, I think,” she says, her voice dropping as he leans in, his lips ghosting across hers. </p><p> </p><p>As quickly as he brought them together, he steps back, leaving her leaning against her car for support. </p><p> </p><p>“Well, sounds like we both have a busy weekend ahead of us. Devious plans and looking beautiful and all that. Happy V-day, Galathynius.” </p><p> </p><p>He retreats further walking backward towards his car. Aelin’s heart flips in her chest again, the first blossoms of something new taking root. </p><p> </p><p>“Happy V-Day, Whitehorn.” </p><p>
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  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was inspired by my recent reread of The Hating Game by Sally Thorne. I've been desperate for a workplace AU for Rowaelin, so I just wrote it myself. </p><p>Hope all you fools had a great Valentine's Day, if that's your thing, or at the very least a very nice Sunday. </p><p>This was edited solely with spellcheck because I'm lazy and want this WIP off my conscious. Come talk to me on <a href="https://the-dark-swan.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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